O M E N S
by SteelAgainstIvory
Summary: "A chubby, peach colored hand was held out to Damien, still lying in the sludge with astounded eyes. With that simple gesture, a defining moment happened in that world that shifted the future." Severe and Dark AU. Dip. The oneshot that took five years.


**A/N: **So I was thinking about this as I was watching "The Omen: The Awakening" which no one really sees Damien. Yet I still had this plot bunny hop into my mind for some carrots… So, enjoy. A spin off might occur if you so wish. Otherwise this is a one-shot.

**Warning:** Well, there is nasty male on male relationships in here. Some other stuffies about religion maybe. Otherwise, I don't think one needs to worry.

**Disclaimer:** South Park Characters, not mine. Damien of the Omen also does not belong to me… Dang.

**Summary:**

**Remember:**

"Blah" – Speech

_Blah_ –Thoughts

Blah – Self Explanatory

…

Damien was evil. And he knew that very well.

If someone stood in his way, he would destroy him or her in whatever fashion he so desired at the time. Most people left him alone, but if they discovered whom he was, they normally tried to stop him. At the age of six, he did not so much care if someone would find out about him; in fact, the boy enjoyed it…it meant he could kill one more person.

Pip was pure. And he did not know it at all.

It never occurred to the boy that if someone was hurting, he could walk away from it without blinking an eye. He was always finding ways to make someone else's life happier, even at the cost of his own. At the age of six, the young boy was an English orphan…

That is how these boys met.

A little blond boy—although many assumed he was a girl because of how he appeared—was hiding behind a large sycamore tree. There was a new arrival at the orphanage this gloomy weathered day. Bright Ocean eyes widely stared at a boy—who projected a disturbingly older soul—with jet-black hair in a shaggy bowl cut. An elegant lady was speaking to a nun vehemently, pushing the six year old away. The little boy stumbled over his feet, a wail rising up as he hit the side of his face against a rosary that hug low on the neck of the nun. Frightened, the blond stepped back, hugging the trunk of his hiding spot.

Dark, almost black as nightshade, eyes glared up at the younger woman. She gasped and spun round, beginning to dash across the street. It was then that a lamppost light grew too hot, and blew out, causing a passing driver to momentarily be blinded. Instinctively he jerked the wheel, crashing into the lady, and pinning her against the broken street lamp. Pip swallowed back a scream as the torso was severed from the body and thumped into the asphalt with a sickeningly wet splat. The blue eyes missed the smug smile that crawled across the cherubic face of the Anti-Christ.

Later in the week, the rest of the children started to talk about the new boy. Many of them were too afraid to say anything to his face, so they went behind his back. Secrets and gossip were whispered about his apparent mother who died only seconds after violently thrusting him away.

"No wonder—the kid's a freak!"

"I betcha he, like, cursed her or something!"

"Dude, here he comes! Shut up, we don't want to die!"

Sinister eyes slid under long raven bangs to the group of kids centered at a table. They stared up blankly at the boy. He scowled, throwing his food in the trashcan heavily. Then, under his breath, snarled, turning towards the doors. As Damien walked out of the kitchen, the others continued their chatter and no one was harmed. Down the narrowed halls from the dining room to the playground outside, Damien had paused before the chapel. The huge cedar doors were open; revealing vaulted ceilings and numerous rows of pews leading to the altar. In front of the pedestal for holy water was a young blond. He knew it was a boy but the yellowed haired one looked much too delicate.

As the boy turned to him, blue eyes (like the sea almost) shone curiously at the son of Satan. Damien quickly continued to the playground.

The next time they would meet would be after a rough day of play. Damien was swinging absently from a tire chained up in the playground, watching the other kids as he tried his hardest to fly up and away from his bleak world. The sun hadn't shone in weeks and the cold bit harshly against his skin that grew paler and paler. The other children around him began to pay attention foolishly.

"Ready? On three."

"One…"

"Two…"

"THREE!"

Suddenly, from behind, Damien was cruelly launched off of his seat and into the muddy earth below. His face was held down, shoved repeatedly into the thick, viscous sand, almost choking him to death. The one who sat on top of him began to punch and kick his backside and ribs. The devil boy's childish hands clawed into the muck and he began to thrash, voice garbled demonically.

As a beast raged inside the tiny body, the air swam pungently. Death would soon swallow the children beating Damien. The raven had spun around as the grip tired quickly enough and he raised his fist in defiance as he readied to attack the next person aiming for his pathetic body. Yet, he didn't have to. In the next moment, a blur had run across the playground, bright golden hair trailing behind as a soft voice called out for the sisters gathered in the chapel. The bullying boys peeked up, startled, and Damien, too, spun his head over to the youth nearing them.

"Leave him be!" his voice was thick with the accent of the European city around them.

"Run!" one of the boys, a redhead with pockmarks, called out. The orphans around the fallen child rapidly disappeared as the nuns fled across the playground; skirts of faded black cotton following while yelling out against the horrid boys.

The Anti-Christ didn't heed anything besides the panting of the lad his own age. Kind blue eyes smiled down. A chubby, peach colored hand was held out to Damien, still lying in the sludge with astounded eyes. With that simple gesture, a defining moment happened in that world that shifted the future.

…

"'For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting lif—'"

"Pip, are you finished yet?" Damien stood just outside the chapel in the wintry downpour; his arms crossed with the glare that could melt the glaciers of Antarctica. Pip's head swiveled behind him and he pouted momentarily.

"You always interrupt me before I finish! Hold on a few seconds longer!" Pip shouted out. A handful of pigeons that sought shelter in the rafters flew about the golden head, alarmed by their voices that echoed in the beams. The priest walking by frowned at the blond and Pip inclined his head for a moment to silently finish. Damien smirked the entire time his companion crossed himself and quickly sprung up to play out in the rain.

They frolicked, running wildly and undeterred in the shower. Laughter could be heard all around the abandoned courtyard. The stern priest watched from his insignificant oval window, observing the playmates with keen eyes. Due to growing up with a deaf mother, he learned to read lips, and watched every move the raven-haired orphan made. Having talked extensively with the deceased mother of Damien, he slowly began to understand her utter _fear_ of the child.

"You're so impatient! I was almost done and you got me in trouble with Father Michelson," Pip, the most pious and gentle child, sulked. Damien simply grinned, stepping closer to the other and swiftly entangled his talon-like fingers in tendrils of sunlight colored hair.

This intimate act of the seven year old made the Father's eyes widen.

"I can't touch you like this if you complete your prayers," Damien whispered. Or that was assumed, as the boy grew closer, bending his face down toward the unblemished ear of the Brit. Rain water traveled down the smooth cheek of the satanic child, dripping off his overtly large, undeveloped lips. They splashed down the tiny ear, winding its way across the side of the peach colored neck.

The kind one visibly shivered, rounding his shoulders into the small chest of his friend. Father Michelson's eyes burned as he barely caught the blonde's lower jaw move but could not make out whatever he said. In response Damien seemed amused and pulled his friend deeper into his body, modest arms securely wrapping him up. The pale hand stroked the damp hair languidly.

"Stupid!" The Father could practically hear the boy now. Unaware he had stood and stumbled to the window, he pulled back, wiping off the thin layer of white mist on the chilled glass. He was lucky enough to watch the next words that spilled forth. "How many times must I tell you…? Your God doesn't love me like he loves you."

That innocent looking child flicked his dark eyes up to Michelson. The priest stumbled back, mouth agape at the shadowed face as it turned to Pip, laying his soaked mouth on top of the wide berth of the forehead of the blond. The Father shook, terrified as the little mouth wandered just a bit further down…

Both boys turned as one of the nuns bellowed their names from inside the mess hall. Soon the orphans dashed through the puddles playfully; the arduous scene before dissolved as if it was simply the old man's imagination.

Gripping the front of his robes, he fumbled for his cross, breath washed out as he murmured every psalm he could recall.

…

"But I _want_ him!" the nine year old hissed with a venom that seemed to be palpable. A gray haired woman glanced down briefly at the insolent child. Father Michelson sat calmly at his desk, his weak hands gripped tightly enough together to turn the knuckles bone white.

"Clearly I don't see why I can't adopt two of your numerous orphans," the woman argued, her brow lifting arrogantly and stretching out her wrinkles. In her youth, she must have been extremely attractive. "Surely you need the room."

"I'm afraid it's impossible," the Father stated. Damien growled at the woman's waist, clutching on to the light blue fabric of her dress. "Young Phillip has a half sister I just became aware of and I am currently trying to find a residence."

"Liar!" Damien accused, pointing a finger. The priest backed up instinctively, but the woman slapped down the hand, annoyed. Damien angrily puffed and settled for glowering at the man as his new mother pushed him out the door. The raven struggled as his shoes squeaked down the immaculate hallways. The woman knew it was a shot chance and so speedily decided it was time to go. The adopted child, on the other hand, growled and snapped like a wild beast every time she yanked him toward the exit. He settled only when his name rang out through the corridor.

"Damien!" Pip had broken through the line of nuns shielding him inside the minuscule chapel. The new mother paused whereas the sisters scrambled to hold back the young boy. Pip tried to wrench his arm free of the unrelenting women.

Knowing the blond was trapped behind, Damien started for him only to be snatched towards the front of the building and practically thrown down the stairs two at a time. He tried to command the new mother to wait, to allow for him to speak to Pip for only a second, but her unsympathetic gaze told him there were things to be done elsewhere.

The black Mercedes drove up gracefully, the door opening from inside, the darkness ominously beckoning. The woman bent her head in and motioned for Damien to follow. As he dejectedly heard the gate behind him whine in pity, he began to bow his head into the sleek, leather interior.

The clang of metal shaking and a shriek made him twist his gaze back to the orphanage. Pip clutched desperately to the gate, those little brows scrunched upwards with tears cascading from his face. Damien raced back, hand grazing past the wrought iron ebony bars to slip in and thread through the silken locks of sunshine. He pressed their foreheads together against the icy metal, closing his eyes to enjoy this last touch.

As the tumultuous noise of the priest and nuns' footsteps grew louder Damien peered out past his dark lashes to see Pip's pink lips murmur out, "Please come back for me?"

"I intend to…"

And then the boy was pulled back, his exhausted adolescent fingers unable to hold on to the wet bars any longer. Damien too, lost his footing for a moment, feet slipping into the gutter, mud caking his pant cuffs. His dark eyes swirling red for a moment as the blond wormed in the grasp of the priest calling out to be let go.

"Damien… it's time to leave now," the elder woman's tone had softened if only a fraction as her creased hand grabbed a hold of his navy-blue jacket sleeve. Damien turned back, nodding almost obediently as he refused to twitch at the sound of Pip's screams from inside the chapel.

…

Pip swung back and forth on the rusted swing set. It had been another three years and the blond was now in his double digits, yet still treated as if he was an infant. Today had been the only day he could escape from the grasp of Father Michelson…

The old man was constantly keeping him in the chapel; his bed moved into one of the spare altar rooms. They kept making him say his prayers every day for an hour and they were always renewing his baptismal vows on Saturday, leaving him to rest on the holy day, except for communion. Most of the orphans, if not adopted, were either joining the church or deciding whether or not to enroll in a boarding school that was downtown in London, yet still owned by the person who contributed to the orphanage.

They didn't give Pip the option though.

While kicking his feet up, Pip hummed. Lonely as he was, he was comforted by the memories on this swing. Resting his head on the chilled metal chain, the Brit closed his wide blue eyes and let thoughts of Damien enter his mind…

What would he look like now?

Handsome, probably… His inky dark hair longer, curling. Deep swirling onyx eyes that penetrated his very being and pale, pale skin. Even as a child, the other lad innocently amazed Pip. It had absolutely nothing to do with sensual desire. The way the Father suggested it however—

The orphan shivered. It was scary. Sure, looking back, Pip knew there was something _kind_ _of_ sexual in all the touches. But from what one of the sisters said, those who grow up without parents and rely on other children often show signs of… _that_… early on in life. She said it had something to do with a scientific study of monkeys.

Smiling to himself, Pip started kicking harder, getting more air and gliding up, up, and up. Feeling the wind whoosh right past his face, the blond could imagine his old friend, leaning up against the gates like always. That smirk adorning his face, taking pleasure in watching as Pip enjoyed himself. In a few moments Damien would saunter over and yank the chain, making Pip arch and practically dive straight into the solid body of the raven. He would arrogantly declare something like, "You better be smiling because you're thinking of me!"

_But that's unclean thoughts, isn't it, Lord?_

Fluttering open his eyelids, Pip glanced to his right, almost wishing Damien would be there, propped against his usual spot. He was completely unprepared for the bark that would startle him. The preteen yelped, accidentally letting go of the chain and flying face first into the sand box. The grit in his left eye made him curse. Then swallowing his tongue back, Pip glanced around for the dog.

Blinking while rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye socket, the ocean orbs noticed a puppy, if it could be called that since it was rather large. Searching for the breed, the blond remembered it was a rottweiller.

"Hi there," Pip greeted. Lowering his hand, he smiled. "My name's Pip."

The dog stood up and barked, wagging its tail. It padded over and lightly sniffed the hand. Licking the fingers, the snout nuzzled against the palm. Happily the boy petted the beast.

…

"But Father, it's his only friend…!" a nun argued in a hush of a voice.

"No! That animal must be put down!" the angry voice echoed so loudly, Pip held his hands to his ears, sniffling miserably. The poor dog let out a low sigh, the head lowering as it licked at the fabric of Pip's jeans roughly.

"But Father, the dog—"

"Bit another child unprovoked!" he interrupted harshly. The stomping of feet could be heard and a sudden calm fell across the chambers.

"Father, that 'child' was a fifteen year old misfit who was traumatizing poor Phillip! The dog was protecting him! How dare you suggest otherwise." A throat cleared and the nun's voice become entirely more pleasant as she declared, making Pip lower his hands with a happy smile, "That pup is staying with us." Said nun padded around the corner, looking as regal as ever while the Father sputtered from inside his study.

Pip leapt up from his spot, then jogged over to the figure walking down the hallway triumphantly. The dog at his heels was slobbering in appreciation. The woman spotted them and kindly turned her head down to smile at the panting blond and dog. "T-Thank you. Sister Augusta…"

"Think nothing of it, Pip," Sister Augusta patted him on the fluffy cranium. The dog growled but otherwise did nothing else. Amused she stooped down to inspect it curiously. "What shall you name this huge fellow?"

"Uh, it's a girl," Pip corrected shyly. "And her name is Mandy."

"Well, Mandy, you keep doing a good job of keeping Pip happy, ya hear?" the sister teased, standing upright. The twelve year old grinned and scratched behind the floppy ears absently. Mandy pushed her head into the palm, receiving the treatment gratefully. "Now go off and play," she shooed.

The pair took off down the hall and Augusta went to flick her hair, but realized it was hidden under her habit. She sighed and crossed her arms, airily keeping an eye on the little boy. Her face bent down momentarily in a haphazard smirk. Then she turned and sauntered down to her room to retire for the day.

…

Father Michelson chewed nervously on his fingernails, a bad tick he developed over the last several years. Having come to terms with the Damien and Pip situation—only he seemed to understand the dangerous state of affairs—yet he was having a hard time controlling Pip's attentiveness to the Lord as he used to for those blessed three years Damien was gone. You see within the next year the orphanage gained a new nun, Sister Augusta, who appeared to defy all his orders when it came to the boy. First it was the dog… now, two years after that incident, she was urging for Pip to go to the boarding school against the Father's wishes.

"He's so lonely here," she argued.

"This is where he needs to be in order to stay—"

"Safe?" she venomously finished. The father winced and just shook his head.

"He will never be harmed here. His soul will be able to go to Heaven… it is my duty as the Lord's Servant to make sure this boy is not touched by evil," glowering at those bright jade orbs of the young nun, the father pointed toward the door, "On this issue you can not sway me."

"I see!" she muttered. She pivoted sharply and stomped out of Michelson's private office and towards the playground where Pip was laughing, throwing sticks for Mandy to retrieve. A sudden thought came to mind and Sister Augusta grinned rougely. "Unfortunately, **you** are a blind man. Little boys can be hurt in churches everyday."

…

Pip rubbed his neck tiredly at a spot where he could feel an odd mark. Long legs dangled from his tire seat while he leisurely rocked the swing. Mandy pranced about, digging for gophers to guzzle down. It was one of her favorite pastimes. Pip smiled half-heartedly. He glanced up at the dim sky of the cities of Europe and let out a big breath.

"Looks like it's gonna rain," he mentioned to no one in particular. Pip clunked his head on the chain, closing his eyes that were the color of the sea, thinking about all the times he would run around in the downpour with his best friend from so long ago. "I dreamt of you again, Damien… Please hurry and save me from this place?"

Mandy paused in her search, ears perking up. Pip, hearing the crunch of the autumn leaves trampled on, peered behind him to see Sister Augusta faltering in her steps as she held a tray with a warm, steaming mug and a plate of sugar cookies. She guiltily raised it to the Brit. He blinked, fumbling down to the ground and making his way over to her. "Now don't tattle on me, but I brought you some cookies from the kitchens," she stage-whispered. Pip laughed, gingerly picking up the mug of hot chocolate, and swiping a cookie. As he munched on it, he thanked the Lord silently, feeling sanctified to have such a caring nun always looking out for his best interest.

"May I have another cookie?" he asked when he finished. Sister Augusta nodded and he took another; she also offered one to Mandy who sniffed it and then wolfed it down, enjoying the sugar immensely. The two chortled and they plopped on the tire again, Pip nearly spilling his drink in his lap.

He was humming under his breath, sipping now and again. The wind blew against him frosty and dancing with the crimson leaves. They could already smell the fresh scent of drizzle in the air... Augusta pushed the swing a little with the tips of her toes in those dirt covered nurse shoes. Pip glanced over shyly. Then his brows constricted and he stared aimlessly into his half finished cup.

"What's wrong?" she questioned, noticing his sudden grim mood. Her feet halted and the tire was back to just suspending them in the air. Pip swirled his finger on the edge of the cup hesitantly.

"It's just—" he shook his head and watched Mandy roll across the floor, tongue hanging out of her mouth, wet and cherry colored. "It's just that I miss Damien so much!"

"Damien?"

"You don't know him but he used to live here with me… and then they took him away many years ago. I-I keep dreaming about him," he confessed as his face lit up like a firework. Augusta put her elegant visage into her cream colored hand.

"Do you love him, Pip?" she questioned as her mouth merrily curled at one side.

"B-By love do you m-mean—"

"I mean love, Pip," she answered, lifting up seriously. The nun went back to lazily toeing the ground so they might swing back and forth. "There is nothing wrong with love. I find it funny how the Bible preaches love and forgiveness, but all people focus on is the things that supposedly damn you to Hell."

"Then why did you become one of the clergy?" the boy questioned. The sister tapped the boy on his cute little button nose. He wrinkled it in surprise and pulled back a bit. She laughed and leaned on the chain, staring at Pip.

"I would like to help you somehow," she answered. The orphan blinked a few times. Then slowly, he scooted over and let himself relax into her lap. Augusta gazed down at him, letting her hand travel through his silky, long locks. He coiled up like a baby and let his hand finger the rosary draped across her neck.

"You're such a nice person…" he whispered, yawning as her body heat quickly enveloped him. The nice drink and delightful cookies lulled him and he let his eyes flutter closed, imagining it was Damien playing with his hair, just like so long ago.

"Not really," she replied, but it was unheard as she realized Pip's breathing had evened. Tiny noises escaped his pouting lips that resembled light snores. The woman didn't know whether to chuckle or sigh. "I can't tell if you're a fool or just too innocent for your own good." She kissed the top of his head in a deceptively mother-like way.

_Either way, I can understand the devil's obsession with you._

…

It was _hot_.

Warmth simmered, causing beads of perspiration to trail down the flushed face of an angel. _Beautiful, _was whispered, hanging, echoing in the air. Breath smelling of blood and wine and tears blew past shivering flesh. _Mine…!_

A harsh cry cracked through the musky air—the tension incredible. Open and filled and trembling in the act. Presented before the devil. Every bit of him. Golden hair splayed across soft ivory. The blue shone brightly in the silver light of the moon, the darkness blending the figure above.

To thrust in… friction tight and arching his naïve little body. Pulling out, a sigh and a harsh, anticipatory breath. Peachy colored fingers covering the sounds of delight. _No, I want you to scream for me…_ Tiny wrists encircled by claws.

Mewls reverberating in the nighttime. _Ah, yes, take me all in…!_ Glinting fangs and glowing scarlet orbs. Panting and rustling of silks.

The taste of sin. The song of evil. The scent of sex. The sight of the fallen. The feel of love. _That's right… you're mine, Pip! _

The Son of Devil was coming.

Father Michelson screeched as he awoke instantaneously. He covered his mouth, wrinkled hands quivering. His filmy eyes shone and quickly his coverlets were thrown from his bed. His legs swung around and hit the floor firmly. A dark robe was tossed on and it blew in the cold December wind of winter.

And it was dark.

The father gasped as he froze outside the door. The sound of the youth inside moaning made his legs feel like jelly. _Lord, _he prayed, _do not let me be too late to rescue him!_ So, foolishly, he threw the bolt and forced his way in. The wind howled, and explosion burst the doors. The father shoved past it, making his way into the modest abode. Pip's body thrashed from side to side, his blue eyes snapping open petrified. His look was dazed and his mouth fell open.

Screaming, the priest suddenly leapt up and seized hold of a peeking pale shoulder. It felt as if a gunshot traveled up into his palm and spread throughout his body like liquid lava. His throat collapsed and he went to his neck, desperate to open the airway. Unexpectedly from the floor, a viscous growl was rumbling. Michelson edged back, face turning purple, then violet, and then a shadow of a huge figure flew through the air. Bright crimson orbs were glowing, sharp canines embedded in spongy skin. Blood seeped across the floor. Tears and screams were everywhere.

From a bat out of hell, came a very nice looking middle-aged woman. She covered her mouth, not horrified, but to conceal a gloating grin. Her hands grabbed the door handle until her knuckles grew white. Black skirts ruffled as bodies clustered the doorway. There were whispers. There was death.

…

"How have you been this past week, Pip?" the therapist asked in a false comfort. The boy shrugged, blonde hair having been sheared close to his head and a bit past his ears if that… all on the command of the shrink. Pip had used it to shield his face from the man sitting at the desk in front of him.

Damien always said that Pip's face was like an open book, the lovely language of his emotions spilling across the Brit's face freely.

"Mandy's been gone, what, a year now?" was the question and a flipping of papers. Pip's knuckles gripped white in his lap. He tried to school his face but somehow, his brows migrated down a fraction in his sorrow.

"To the day, yes."

"The first anniversary," the man, who's leathery face creased in a sort of frown, announced, "And you're dealing well."

"Sister Augusta has been very helpful," Pip explained, not looking up from his hands. The shrink tsked, but didn't say much else. The teen sighed, knowing he must elaborate or be sent back with even more serve orders for the new church priest to follow. "I don't have much memory of what happened. She tried to tell me the late Father was using me and Mandy was only protecting me. Dogs are very defensive. She says it's not my fault the Father was killed because of it… that Mandy had to be put down as a result as well…"

"She said so, yes, but what do you think?"

"I-I think—I think she's probably right."

Later, Pip sighed, shoving a sealed letter in his satchel as he walked down the busy streets of his hometown in London. Gray, cold, and always full of an understandable murmur of people… yes, that was his home… his forlorn, without a friend in the world, home. The sunshine colored youth returned to the chapel at about half past two in the afternoon. He was surprised to see his favorite nun trotting briskly toward the gate he was just rounding from. A brown case was in her hand.

"S-Sister?" he questioned. The woman seemed so intent and sour as she focused on the exit, she barely noticed Pip until he tentatively reached out and brushed her arm. "Miss Augusta…?"

"Oh! Pip!" she gasped and spun, letting out all her frustration. With a bounce she pushed her arms up and embraced the lad, shaking.

"W-What's going on?" he asked softly, letting his arms go around her curvy frame. She pulled back, blinking away tears and a frown.

"No one told you?"

"N-No! What happened?"

"They're transferring me to another convent in Paris! This stupid new priest says I am no longer needed here!" she cried, backing away. Pip's eyes widened and his head swiveled two and fro as if he couldn't believe it—which he couldn't really.

"They can't do that!" he protested.

"That's what I said!" Clucking her tongue, Sister Augusta swiped at her red-tipped nose and gave the boy a weak smile. "But, I'm a lowly nun. I don't have a say where God needs me apparently."

"Oh, Sister—"

"No, no! None of that," she chided gently, letting her warm hands pinch at Pip's still baby fattened cheeks. She let out a sort of coo. "I can't accept it as true that you're gonna be seventeen in a week. It's just been… oh…_!_ It has just been so long. I can't even _think_ I have to go!"

"Then ask to stay!" Pip pleaded. He pointed in the direction of the church. "Tell them I'll be miserable without you! Now I'll never get to go out! Father Johnson will keep me locked up all the time—"

"Phillip," the nun used his whole name. Pip immediately bowed his head. "As much as I hate to leave you, I knew I wouldn't be able to stay forever. That's not my place… Someone else has you claimed already and I bet they're afraid of what would happen if I stayed _too_ long! Ha!"

"You say the most confusing things," the teen blushed while mumbling. That caused Sister Augusta one final giggle. Then, before the poor blond knew it… she was nothing but laughter on the wind's wing…

…

Pip was sitting at his desk in the church office, flipping through a few passages in the back of Revelations. Absently, he was typing a few things on the new computer that was donated to the church the following week. He was still getting used to the feel of a keyboard beneath his fingertips. A few of the younger nuns, and especially the children, found it quite endearing. The blond never bothered explaining his sheltered life to them because very few people were left from when he was a child. Only Johnson remained, fading away from pancreatic cancer at the hospital a few miles downtown.

"Excuse me, father," a voice said, followed by a knock. Pip looked up, light hair brushing against his shoulder, on his elegant neck was the display of the white collar. The sight Pip was greeted with was a youth, bushy red hair and buckteeth, nervously bent inside the doorframe. "You have a call from the hospital."

"I'll take it here in the office," Pip announced, rising gracefully. The youth nodded and skittered back out. As soon as he was gone, the ancient corded phone on his desk was blinking a crimson light at him. With a sigh, Pip reached out, neatly trimmed fingers plucking up the phone. He brought up the receiver, bending his head downward. "Yes, hello?"

"Hello, father. I am afraid he doesn't have much longer," came the Punjab accent of the operating doctor for Father Johnson. _Speak of the devil… _Pip closed his eyes uselessly.

"I understand. I'll be there within the hour…"

True to his word, the blond priest had taken the emergency box of Eucharist and a small bottle of wine. He hailed a cab, getting into the backseat in the nick of time. The ride was mostly silent, save for the downpour of the sudden storm. Blotted light from lamp streets flickering to life filled up the cramped space, but Pip paid no mind. A rosary was dangling between his fingers, swinging lightly.

When he arrived at the hospital, he sat up, prodding the back of the driver gently. "Would you please wait for me?"

"I dunno, my shift's almost over, father—" a withered face turned and Pip checked his pockets.

"Well, yes, I apologize. This might take a while…" Pip peered out at the rain, brows tilting sadly. The wizened cabby leaned over, opening his glove box. Pip was surprised when a fold-up umbrella was shoved into his face.

"I feel bad. At least take the umbrella."

"Thank you," Pip whispered, clutching the umbrella softly, thin scarlet plastic bunched beneath his fingers. He left the cab, waving gratefully as it pulled away. Then he swiftly made his way inside the pale hospital, his boots splashing against the pooling rain. The brilliant white blinded him momentarily as he checked in at the nurses' station. A new girl was sitting there, smiling. Pip knew she hadn't been at the place long… Priests are not a welcome sight at hospitals. Still, he gave a slight smile back. He walked toward the elevator, pressing the button to go up, when he heard the light chatter at the desk.

"What a lovely gentleman," the new girl commented, "Shame he's a man of the cloth…"

"I thought you liked Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious that came in just before?" an older nurse asked offhandedly. The younger chuckled, making her sound vaguely familiar. Like a forgotten friend. Pip was caught off-guard when the doors before him let out a shrill ding and split open to reveal the cream interior of the elevator.

"Oh, yes. But, in a devilish sort of way…" the girl purred, causing a tsk from her superior. Pip strut in, the special brief case made to house his supplies striking his leg hard. He turned back to the door, pulling up the brief case slightly, and glanced up. There was a shock to his stomach when he realized the girl at the desk had obviously been grinning wickedly at him the entire time. "This sort of man tempts evil. I'd like to corrupt him."

The door closed then, and muffled laughter could be heard behind the heavy metal. Pip grabbed at the front of his robes, feeling his heart fluttering erratically. Next was the jolt as gravity increased upon his body for a second, meaning the elevator was lazily making its way upward. It took a moment, but soon Pip brushed off the comment, and was back to his task. Rubbing at his tired eyes, he made his way out of the elevator and down a long stretch of a bleak hallway.

Pip entered father Johnson's room, noting the cold. His breath was dancing before him with each puff. A sickly sweet smell seemed to drip off the elderly priest. "Father Johnson, it's me, Pip," he greeted, pushing open a pastel curtain.

"O-Oh… m'dear boy… What brings you here? Shouldn't you be studying for your seminary? Hmm?" the voice was like curling bark off a birch tree. A slight cough cleared the throat, creating the endless folds of skin to puff out for a mere space of a second. Pip looked over to the IV drip and saw the morphine programmed a higher dose than normal. With a sigh, he placed his brief case on the wheeled table.

"It has been many years now, father. I'm finally a priest," Pip explained, clicking open the golden snaps of the case, "I'm here to serve you last rites."

"Oh, child," the father moaned, lifting his face, an oxygen tube catching against the bed. He was reaching out to the blond man, bones creaking. "I remember now! I remember!"

"I know, father Johnson," Pip murmured, soothing the old man.

"No, no! I mean, I remember why I took my good friend's position… I remember. He knew it wouldn't be long. He knew. I knew too. I know now. You must—must avoid the darkness! You must—" there was a crack in the priests' voice. Pip tried to calm him as best he could, but the father became hysterical, thrashing, and in a panic, the blond hit the nurses' button repeatedly. Nurses responded, flying in and nearly bulldozing Pip to the side. However, the father was impudent, and his gnarled hands flew out, grasping the younger priest by the face.

"Ow!" Pip winced as a wayward nail sliced his right cheek. Johnson's eyes bugged, filmy and locked onto Pip's face.

"He's come back! For _you_!" the old man shrieked, and twisted, coiling up like a dried leaf. A steady beep was blaring in the room, and in all the confusion, Pip was thrown out into the hallway. More bodies, arranged in a rainbow of scrubs, rushed past him in that white, white corridor.

Pip blinked, suddenly staring at the inside of the elevator once more. He was aware he walked back, but was so dazed, he couldn't really recall. He sniffled, then hissed. His cheek was stinging. A peach colored hand swiped at his right cheek. On the pads of his digits was a watery red substance. Blood and tears. Pip wiped his eyes, noticing he was in fact shedding silent tears. "Oh, the scratch…!" Pip mumbled to no one in particular. He searched his pockets, but only procured the folded-up umbrella.

The elevator opened, and not a soul was at the front desk, luckily. With a sigh, Pip tossed the visitors badge on the counter and quickly headed out the door. Another sniffle managed to escape him. The air outside was icy, penetrating his thick robes, and creating a shiver across his skin. Pip ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, wisps of gold strands obscuring the dim night. For a moment, he seemed to be a beacon in the night, and he caught a glimpse of a car turning down the street. It could have been white, it could have been blue. For all the world knew, it could have been his imagination.

He unfolded the umbrella and lifted it to the sky. It would be a moderate walk back to the church grounds. Pip had best start as quick as possible. This time, the breeze of ice caused a sniffle, and he rubbed at the tip of his pink nose. The rain pelted regardless, and Pip shouldered his umbrella, the scarlet plastic becoming a deep, sinister shade of blood as he left the luminescent hospital behind. His cut was a mild sting, standing out against his flesh vibrantly, though he could not see. He merely walked along, ignoring the wetness creeping into the soles of his scuffed boots. In the back of his mind, he replayed the words of the older priest, and found them to be as puzzling as they were in his youth. Although every life decision was made for him, Pip no longer blamed the church for sheltering him. They did their best to keep him safe. From what, he was never quite positive…but had a notion now.

"Damien…" the name that had been the shadow of a child who made up his entire life slipped from Pip's mouth like a prayer. There was a quiver that rose up within him when he realized it had occurred. The golden blond came to a soft stop beneath a lamppost, centered in a pinkish glow from his umbrella. Around him was the night darkness, penetrated by streaks of white that were the harsh drops of rain. The sound was constant inconsistency that was nostalgic. A memory came to life as he listened. He relived it vividly.

From the absolute blackness, there was an echo of radiant red orbs. They were framed by curling strands of ink-colored hair. Pale—pale as death—flesh emerged into the light. It was always so breathtaking. His colors contrasted in a way that always had a frightening appeal. _He would be so handsome now…_ Pip watched the phantom move as though he were really in front of him. A hand reaching out, strong and broad, taking the cool metal handle and shoving it to the side. Rivets of the downpour falling first across the blonde's shoulder and then hitting his skin, causing goosebumps to erupt in frenzy. Another hand moved up fluidly, the fingernails like talons as they glinted maliciously in the watery crimson light. Pip should have flinched, but he knew they would barely traverse through his silky strands.

"I cannot touch you like this if you finish your prayers…" he reminded, the tone so mature now. Brass and burnt honey, that's what it was. The cold shift of wind blew across Pip's back, ruffling the robes. He leaned into the secure chest of the phantom, the scent of smoke seeping into his clothes, and distantly heard the clatter of the umbrella on pavement. Surreal arms held him in place, where he belonged in Damien's arms.

"Why? Why can't you touch me?" Pip murmured, his lids fluttering down.

"Still stupid…" Damien whispered, and Pip gasped at the incredible heat enveloping him, suffocating him, "Your God doesn't love me. Not like he loves you, at least… Or even like I love you…"

…

Pip's ocean blue eyes opened, and all he could see was white. Groaning, he sat up, rubbing at his throbbing head while he blinked. He whimpered when he felt his skin being tugged by needles and tape. Taking away the sleep around his lashes, he noted the sterile perfume embedded in the sheets around him. There was a constant beeping coming from behind him, timed to his heartbeats. "I'm… in the hospital?" he questioned aloud. His voice was scratchy, as if he had been screaming for hours.

A nurse walked in just then, and made a slight yelp. "Father! You shouldn't be up! Oh, you still have such a fever." She was tsking under her breath as she forced him to lie back in bed. Pip shook his head, realized his neat bangs slick with sweat and sticking to the side of face.

"But, I have my congregation and—"

"Please, you've been hallucinating for the last few days…" she begged. Pip scrunched up his brow and shakily swatted at the nurse's hands.

"Days? H-How long have I been here?" he asked, head swiveling around for a calendar anywhere in the room. "When did I get sick? I-I thought I saw Damien. Is he here? Can't I see a doctor? Please?"

"Oh dear!" the nurse mumbled. She walked behind him and suddenly there were tapping noises. Almost instantly, a burning sensation flowed from his IV into his body. Pip made to sit up, but the room began swimming and he felt his body float away, mind hazing over.

"D-Damien… help," he pleaded into the darkness.

"Shush, father, shush. You'll be just fine, soon. Very soon…"

…

Pip was handcuffed when his mind was no longer foggy. It stayed that way for a few days. He thought it might be because he could have tried to get up in a fevered delusion. By the time he had enough courage and strength to be taken seriously, he realized that something else was going on. Finally, he refused to eat or drink and promised to be ornery until his inquires were answered. Reluctantly, the doctors called in a man and woman both dressed professionally, but with no medical credentials visible. The man—dark skinned and built—stood at the door, hands in his pockets. The woman sat on the bed beside Pip, and looked genial enough.

"Hello, father. I'm Dr. Wong," she announced, voice pleasant enough. Pip went to offer his hand, but it snagged in the handcuffs. With a sigh, he nodded instead. "I heard you would like to talk."

"Well, I would like to know what is going on," he said, quite exhausted with the situation.

"You don't know?" she questioned, leaning her head in a way that was supposed to signify curiousness, but was nothing more than a parlor trick Pip recognized from his young therapy sessions.

"I'm afraid not," he answered calmly. Dr. Wong pulled out a manila folder from a brief case by her legs.

"Do you think this is because of any black outs? Like when you were a teenager?" she asked, voice displaying sympathy. Pip suppressed the urge to recoil in frustration.

"I never had any black outs. I tried to tell my previous therapist. He…didn't quite agree," Pip hedged.

"Well, he does have a psychology and medical degree you don't have. Did you ever consider that?" she went on. Her hand was sweeping over a pad, taking notes. A twitch made Pip sit up rigid.

"Listen! I did not black out! I know what happened to me every day of my life!" he asserted. The woman's face looked up set in a Noh mask devoid of emotion.

"You were well aware Father Michelson abused you. Once he was dead—your dog tore out his jugular, quite an odd feat to accomplish—you thought it would stop. It never did, did it? Father Johnson was a good friend of Father Michelson. They must have taken turns. I can only imagine how you must have felt—"

"Stop that! It's not true!" Pip shrieked, going to cover his ears, but his wrist was painfully attached to the bed. He pulled at the restraints in fury. The woman went on with her retelling regardless.

"But why wait so many years for your revenge? Surely, with the father dying in the hospital, he couldn't harm you. What was the point in killing him then? To show him how it felt to be helpless? Watch his life crumble in your hands?"

"No! I didn't kill him! I didn't do anything! They never—W-Why are you saying this?" Pip demanded, scrambling on the bed for the nurses' button. His hands were quaking roughly as he tried to grab the remote. It slipped out of his fingers like wet sand, clattering to the floor. He stared at it despondently, and then glanced up to the man at the doorway. He just shook his head.

"When you were found in the street, a hypodermic needle was lying a pace away. We matched the insulin on the inside to the dose in Father Johnson's blood stream…" he explained. Pip's eyes went from the man back to Dr. Wong several times.

"B-But, he wasn't diabetic," the blond stuttered.

"It was a lethal amount," the doctor supplied. Pip felt tears well up in his eyes with no way to stop it.

"Y-You think… I _killed him_. Oh—Oh God," Pip curled up, sobbing openly.

"It'll do you no good to pray to God now," the detective declared, turning triumphantly. The psychologist followed, head held high. Silently, the priest also admitted that prayer was useless to him now.

…

The trial was long and hard, but in the end, the jury was sympathetic. Pip's lawyer had convinced them it was because of mental instability. After a while, the ex-priest had to question whether or not he _was_ in the right mind.

At night, Pip found himself wrapped in fantasies involving his dark phantom. The mornings would be the discovery of bruises that practically resembled singes. In the daylight hours he felt untouched and lonely. The long nights were restless and pressing. He slept fitfully, if at all. Pip began withdrawing from other human contact, extremely close to hysterics at any and most times of the day. The orderlies in the facility transferred him to three different rooms, until eventually he was locked in the solitary padded room.

The off-white room was too cool, too bright. There were no visitors. From the snips of conversation though, no one would visit him for a while. The world was in an uproar of the newest election. Someone versus someone. Promise and reform or simple values and meaningless traditions. It didn't matter. It never mattered. The days were blending into one extended nightmare.

…

"Damien…" Pip murmured into the night at some inconsequential hour. There was a slot up high, and the moon could barely be seen peeking through the misty clouds. A rush of feathers blurred the light, the cell falling into shadow. Pip gazed up at the beady black eyes of a raven. They stared back with terrifying intelligence. It let out a caw, rustling its wings. With a smile, Pip leaned his shaggy head against the fluffed wall. "You've taken my everything already. Do you think I would let you if I didn't truly love you?"

The bird flapped its wings against the stale air, a feather breaking off and floating down…

It was about nine in the morning. A youthful orderly with short brown hair was making his way down the soft teal corridor with his senior. "Well, I tell ya, I got stuck between Thorne and Christopher," the senior said.

"Not me. I'm a Thorne fan. Voted for him after work yesterday," the brown haired lad declared. He was pushing the food cart with an extra boost of energy. "Just the thought of change makes me happy! Change is good, ya know?"

"Now, now," his coworker started, "Change is simply change. Nothing good or bad about it. It depends on the people surrounding the change." The pair knocked on the heavy door at the end of the lengthy hallway.

"Huh? What do you mean?" the youth asked. The other man waved his hand dismissively and knocked on the door again. The sound of flesh meeting iron reverberated ominously in the empty air around them. "Is he not up yet?" A ring of worry went through the pair and this time the youth banged the side of his fist on the door. "Hey, Pip?" he called, struggling to sound friendly in his panic, "Its me—Mark! Your favorite? Like the gospel?"

"I'll get the keys," the senior answered. Mark looked over and nodded absently. He went back to knocking fervently on the door.

"Hey! Where's our 'Good Morning'? Pip!" he started shouting. Some of the other patients peeked out from behind the cracks of their doorjambs. The senior returned, gently shooing away Mark. "This is an omen… I-I got a bad vibe. What if the poor guy hurt himself?"

"Shut up," the senior hissed, checking over his shoulder to see people stumbling down the hallway. He gestured to the busybodies curiously wandering over to the two orderlies. "You calm them, okay?"

Mark didn't say anything, instead jogging over to a group that was beginning to murmur: a redhead with matted hair, a tall black haired man who was attached to the smaller redhead, a larger gentleman, and another covering himself in a wool blanket obscuring an accurate description of what he looked like. As Mark caught up to this whispering group, a young-looking patient with fluffy hair peeked out the nearest door, questioning, "W-What happened, fellas?"

"Pip was taken by the devil," the redhead supplied. The orderly sternly looked at the group.

"Now, Kay, who told you that?" he questioned, crossing his arms. The largest of the group was scowling. Mark was unsuspecting when the one draped in the blanket raised his hand mid-height. "You?" he asked, relaxing his stance, "You told them Pip was taken by the devil?"

The figure shook its blanket-covered head. Mark blinked as suddenly the covering fell to the floor in a flutter, exposing a man with choppy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and severely scarred flesh on every inch of his unclothed torso. "I told them he was taken by the Anti-Christ. Not the devil. Two different entities," his matter of fact tone darkly clarified.

"Why would y-you say that?" the orderly couldn't help but ask, internally quaking.

"Because I die all the time. Sometimes I end up in hell."

"Ken, you do not die all the time. I would have noticed if you did," Mark sighed, relieved.

"No one remembers," he said like it was a detail of the universe people must accept.

"I remember!" the fluffy haired patient chirped. Ken glanced over and smiled.

"No one remembers except my Puff-Puff," he corrected. The largest of the group scoffed and walked off, grumbling to himself. 'Kay' led the black haired male away down the hall, but Ken remained with 'Puff-Puff' by his side. Mark opened his mouth to scorn them, to say something about not telling rumors, when his senior cried out in alarm. The large one hesitated, looking over his shoulder curious. The black haired one stopped the redhead, pointing backwards. The orderly was already dashing down the hall, skidding to a halt beside the open iron door. The senior was standing, looking around the solitary cell in a daze.

"Where…?" Mark tried, but his voice gave out. An amused snort sounded behind the pair of orderlies, startling them. They swiveled their heads around to see Ken standing there, crossing his arms over his naked chest. Puff-Puff behind him, his fingers squeezing a faded orange pantleg.

"I told you," he said.

"No, that's impossible!" Mark shook his head hurried, "He could have learned to unlock the door or something! We'll check the security tapes—"

"Y-Yeah! I'll do that now!" the senior suddenly snapped out of it. He pivoted on his heel and ran down the corridor. Mark surveyed the room, streams of soft yellow light entering through the slotted window without rush. Dust was caught in the beams, swirling and dipping carelessly. The coolness of the morning was clinging to the yielding walls, the echoes of the wind and birds playing a tune. It was so tranquil…

"Don't you believe in God?" Puff-Puff suddenly spoke up, jolting Mark from his mind.

"I—I… Yeah, I do. Like, I've never really been to church or nothing, but, I can't imagine that God _can't_ exist," he sputtered. With a headache coming on, he leaned on the jamb, covering his mouth in wonderment.

"Well, if you believe in God," Ken said, "Why can't you believe in the devil? Or an Anti-Christ?"

"I d-don't… I don't know."

"That's okay, I don't think most people know," Puff-Puff soothed, hiding his face behind Ken's shoulder. Mark looked over, tiredly frowning at the pair.

"Suppose I suspend my disbelief, what sort of evidence does this empty room have?" the orderly questioned caustically.

Ken blinked. "What do you mean? It's not empty."

"Yes it is! No Pip!" Mark threw his hand behind him, vaguely waving at the room. Ken and Puff-Puff stared behind him, perplexed. Frustrated, the brunet growled and stomped away. The patients watched him leave, then turned back to the cell.

"I don't get it, Kenny," the smaller patient said, coming out behind the blond to inspect the room more closely. "How could he n-not see?"

"Some people just see what they want to see, or lack thereof," was the answer. With a sigh, Ken grabbed the handle of the door, the cold metal biting his unprotected skin. "Well, no use leaving the door open. I guess they'll see one day…"

"When The End comes?" his companion asked.

Ken shrugged, "Probably." He closed the door. It shut with a lightness that betrayed its size. With a nod, he turned and walked down the hallway. Puff-Puff followed, grasping for Ken's hand. He bent his head, baby blues sparkling.

"Do you think Pip's good?"

"Pip's always been good, Damien's always been bad," Kenny whispered, "Sort of like you and me." Puff-Puff shook that fluffy head, but there was a shy smile blooming.

"No, I mean, do ya think he's happy now?" he inquired. The blond did not respond, just found his forgotten blanket and threw it over them both. No one could see what transpired beyond that cloth, as thin as it was, and no one opened the seemingly heavy door. But, if they did, and did not look for what should or shouldn't be there, they might have seen what few people with open eyes could see.

A lone, night-black feather lying in the middle of that too white room.


End file.
